


Of Spring Nights and Dead Watchmen

by Ledaeus



Category: Dishonored (Video Games), Thief (Video Game 2014), Thief (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Corvo just wants him to feel better, Crossover, Cuddles, Garrett is emotionally traumatised, Heavy Angst, High Chaos Corvo Attano, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, M/M, Panic Attacks, Sobbing, What Have I Done, What Was I Thinking?, blood mention, dead guards, there's like no dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 04:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16234193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ledaeus/pseuds/Ledaeus
Summary: Corvo finds him half-sitting, half-kneeling in the muck and filth somewhere in Baron’s Way South. It’s a quiet corner, the refuge of drunks and ladies of the night: secluded, dark, stinking of piss and vomit, but in front of Garrett’s hunched silhouette there lays another pale figure half-shrouded in moonlight, his mouth slightly agape, eyes wide, limbs collapsed limp and broken to his sides. There is a deep red gash somewhere near his neck, and a huge quantity of blood is pooled beneath his otherwise-pristine body.It is clear now that the Watchman is dead. And there is nothing that Garrett or Corvo can do for him.





	Of Spring Nights and Dead Watchmen

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write something other than my main fic in a different style for a couple of days and this is a MISTAKE.  
> Also this is my first oneshot wooooo

Corvo finds him half-sitting, half-kneeling in the muck and filth somewhere in Baron’s Way South. It’s a quiet corner, the refuge of drunks and ladies of the night; secluded, dark, stinking of piss and vomit, but in front of Garrett’s hunched silhouette there lays another pale figure half-shrouded in moonlight, his mouth slightly agape, eyes wide, limbs collapsed limp and broken to his sides. There is a deep red gash somewhere near his neck, and a huge quantity of blood is pooled beneath his otherwise-pristine body.

It is obvious now that the Watchman is dead. Neither Garrett nor Corvo can do anything for him: that much is clear.

Garrett doesn’t appear to sense Corvo approaching him like he usually would. The man has some kind of sixth sense for detecting people moving around behind him, but instead he reaches out with a shaking hand, graveyard-silent, and strokes the hand of the dead man, his fingertips light, barely brushing or making contact. A small smear on the Watchman’s hand shows that this isn’t the first time Garrett’s stroked him. This silence is a feat, even for Garrett; a man who makes the darkness and silence his livelihood, a man who is threatened by noises that are even slightly too loud. Corvo has never seen him handle anything with such care before. 

Garrett himself is covered in dirt and sweat, his hood down, hair greasy and wet in the night. The hand that is outstretched to the guard on the floor is slick and sticky with quickly-congealing blood, hard evidence of an attempt to stem the bleeding, to save his life, to keep the wound closed. There's no doubt it has been a losing battle. Garrett has neither the materials nor the knowhow to perform this kind of emergency lifesaving medicine on a stranger, but the effort is there, shown embedded in Garrett’s tense shoulder muscles and pained face, fresh and raw as the wound on the guard’s neck.

Maybe Corvo missteps, maybe there is some unseen obstacle, a twig or a stone, that means that his footstep is louder than the last, but the sound causes Garrett to jump violently, drawing in a sharp, juddering breath between his clenched teeth. He twists around, half to his feet, mismatched eyes wild before he spots Corvo and half-collapses again, plopping back down in the mud, ignoring the rain that now hammers down on the pair in unrelenting droves. Corvo sees now that his face is muddy too, pale streaks finding their ways from his hairline to his chin, but whether they are tear-tracks or raindrops, Corvo cannot tell. He’s not sure whether Garrett knows either. Somewhere along the line they intertwine and collapse, hot and cold merging to create a tepid, half-hearted reinforcement to the light creases lining his face, a testament to all his years on this earth. Corvo knows how it is. 

As Garrett turns his head back to the man crumpled out in the mud, Corvo sees that his face has turned from the usual pale peach to a sickly grey, his nose and eyes and the tips of his ears a dark pink which just looks murky and red in the low light of the street. The blue of his mismatched eye glows dimmer than usual, almost unnoticeable, the only indication of where Garrett is looking sometimes, especially when the night is as dark as this one is. The sconce on the wall nearby has clearly been out for nothing but a few minutes now, the remnant smoke lethargically climbing its way up the building that the torch is affixed to, slithering its way out of the dull ironwork and around the drops of dew that have collected, nestled in the moss in the early morning.

Corvo finishes approaching Garrett who doesn’t look away from the Watchman this time and places a hand on his shoulder, squeezes. Normally Garrett hates being touched unexpectedly, normally he would shrug the hand off or bat it away with a spare forearm and a sharp glare and a warning, but now he is transfixed, stuck to the ground, doesn’t even flinch. He is very clearly a hostage in his own world; one that consists only of himself, the sucking mud, and the guard that he has just killed. He shifts and Corvo can very clearly see the weapon now. A sword, standard issue in The Watch, dull and of poor quality, tipped with blood, hilt sat in the muck near Garrett’s left hand. Something must have gone very wrong in a very short space of time.

Corvo reaches down and grabs the hilt, noticing that it is wrapped in hard, worn leather, unadorned. Just like in Dunwall, the standard footsoldier receives the swords that are the cheapest and quickest to manufacture. Just like in Dunwall, the guards here are not used or feared because they are highly skilled and formidable warriors, but because they are nothing more than meat shields. Cannon fodder. 

But that doesn’t make them any less human. Garrett knows this.

Slowly, carefully, as not to spook Garrett and hurt him, Corvo slides the sword out of his reach before throwing it off into a pile of hay that had collected against the base of the wall maybe ten feet away. Garrett is not one to lose his cool, which is why it’s so odd to find him here, but it is simply good practice. Even something as innocent as a slip on the slimy cobblestones could be lethal. Corvo has been handling blades all his life, he has seen what a nick to the inside of a thigh or forearm can do. More often than not in Corvo’s line of work, those areas are the ones where there only has to be a quick lunge, and then there is nothing that can be done to save them. Not that anyone is around to try. It doesn’t fill Corvo with guilt like it does Garrett, on the contrary, it fills his heart. Usually they are terrible people with terrible morals that have hurt too many others. Garrett doesn’t seem to care about the morality of his few victims. More often than not, these people die alone, whether it is in a cellar, in a back street, in their own homes; it doesn’t matter. Death always comes.

Questions burn in Corvo’s mind but he resists, deciding to wait until they are both out of trouble and Garrett becomes able to speak again. For now, he makes no noise, sitting silently.

Corvo waits a moment, allowing Garrett a few more seconds with the man he has just killed. They both know that they can’t stay there in the street, that soon another Watch officer will walk by and find his crumpled brother, find he is not breathing, find the blood on his own sword and will call a search. There will quickly be hundreds or thousands of soldiers out combing through The Eternal City like ants on spilt juice, and then it will be over unless Garrett and Corvo find a safe sanctuary to wait it out. Corvo knows that it is too far to safely get them both to the clocktower tonight, so he looks around for a second, searching for a temporary hideout.

The street feels timeless, like the Void does to Corvo, or like a hallowed shrine to some ancient deity, but they have to leave. Garrett takes a lot of persuasion before he even rises to his feet. His hands are cold to the touch as Corvo kneels down in front of Garrett, blocking his view of the Watchman and gripping his fingers, rubbing them between his own. This time Garrett flinches, and for a moment Corvo worries that he’s going to lash out, to hit him in frustration and grief and anger but he does no such thing, instead opting to drop his eyes to the ground and sigh, clenching and unclenching his hands, noticeably drawing back into himself, folding himself up defensively as if preparing to box himself up and seal himself away forever. Corvo knows, rationally, that Garrett would never lay a hand on him, but his mind still whirrs, flighty thoughts the product of his time in Coldridge. He can’t help it, he knows that, but it doesn’t make it any easier. His stomach clenches for even entertaining the thought.

He rubs Garrett’s shoulder, pleading with him in his eyes to stand up, to let Corvo help him out of the street, expecting a lot more resistance than is given. He need only a few seconds before, leaning heavily on Corvo’s supportive grip, he rises to his feet, legs shaking violently, numb from cold and rain. His hair has been growing longer recently. What is usually a short fuzz has become a tuft of black, kinked where it usually sits tucked underneath his hood, and it drips with water, plastered to his forehead, the kohl underneath his eyes running down over his gaunt cheeks, reminding Corvo of the distant eyes of the courtesans back at The Golden Cat. The Heart has told Corvo a lot about the women who work there and he wonders briefly, perversely, what it could tell him about Garrett.

By now the thief is up on his feet, walking shakily. Corvo swears he can hear Garrett whispering fervent apologies like prayers under his breath to the Watchman but Corvo quickly steps in, blocking the line of sight between Garrett and the corpse, aiming to avoid another breakdown. They don’t have the time for it here. He guides Garrett with one hand in the small of his back, which is not resisted, and they round a corner, separating Garrett from the scene. Corvo instinctively looks up, searching for a place to hide, to get off ground level and out of the way of the rest of The Watch. He has spent enough time in The Eternal City to know that oftentimes, being severely underpaid and overworked by Thadeus Harlan, the Watchmen don’t care too much about doing their jobs well, fearing only Harlan’s wrath, preferring to do their rounds as quickly as possible and return to the warmth of the taverns and their homes. Corvo doesn’t blame them. He has never blamed them.

Seeing an opening, Corvo motions for Garrett’s attention, points to a crate beneath a low thatched roof and the pair climb onto it, Corvo taking the lead before turning around, gripping the edge of the roof, and holding his hand out in earnest for Garrett to grab onto. Garrett grips onto Corvo’s outstretched hand, although he wouldn’t usually thanks to his aversion to reliance on other people, but he feels too shaky to trust himself, especially if the offer is from someone he nearly trusts. Corvo pulls him up bodily onto the roof and they duck as a Watchman turns the corner, lantern swinging, whistling some ancient song, heading straight for the street where his brother lies dead among the rats and the muck.

They have to move.

Getting to their feet again, they sneak across the rooftop and climb onto a balcony with a window embedded in the nearby wall. With a small nod, Garrett indicates that the room that they are stood next to has stood empty for at least several months now, meaning that they can take refuge here without fear of being found by either inhabitant or Watch. Corvo turns to Garrett and gestures to the crowbar hooked to a loop in the Master Thief’s leathers. Garrett, hesitating for a moment, passes him the tool and with all his raw strength Corvo jams it into the bottom of the window, the rotten wood splintering underneath it and hauls the frame open within seconds, with only a little noise to show for it. The Watchmen will not notice the disturbed sill, even if they walk past. The area is shrouded in shadow, too high up to be seen, and the whole balcony looks like it’s about to collapse down into the street as it stands.

Garrett would be in awe but his guts feel like they’ve just been slashed and ripped out. He’s too occupied with the searing image of the dead Watchman in his mind’s eye to notice.

Corvo, noticing how far away Garrett’s eyes have become, risks touching him again, coaxing him in through the open window, helping him haul his leg over the sill before collapsing down on the other side. The place is covered in dust, and the disturbance makes Corvo cough, stifling the hacking as he closes the window again, daring not to light any candles in the room. It is a small affair; a single bed propped up against the wall demands attention despite its drabness, and beside it sits a wooden chair that has a cracked support, whichever splinters that haven’t been eaten by opportunistic insects litter the floor, undisturbed. There are several collapsed but empty shelves on the walls but apart from that, the room is bare, dead. Garrett sits on the floorboards underneath the window, his head slumped down over his chest, resting his elbows on his knees, supporting his forehead with his hands. Leftover drops of rainwater fall from his clothes and a pool quickly collects beneath him. Corvo doesn’t fare much better. His own long hair has stuck thoroughly to his cheeks. The coat is much heavier with water than it was before.

There is a moment of silence. The freezing rain hits the window in frenzied torrents before there is an anguished cry from several streets over and, after another minute or so, a smattering of boots through the puddles and mud on the cobblestones. Both of them know that the body of the Watchman has been found. Garrett draws into himself. Corvo can hear him wheezing for breath beside him so he sits up, dragging himself from the spaced-out state he’s been floating in since they entered the room. He turns to face Garrett and finds him staring out in front of them, but not focusing on any one thing in particular. It seems like his gaze extends well past the tight confines of the room and continues on forever and ever. He is fighting for breath which his body rejects before it has a chance to sustain him, but it’s not from the effort of getting here.

Corvo knows that Garrett wants to be alone right now, but neither of them are safe leaving this refuge, at least not until the Watch have dispersed. Corvo’s not sure that he would want to anyway. He hates seeing Garrett upset, knows that he’d do anything for the Master Thief to help him find some inner peace or happiness, but he recognises that sometimes this isn’t possible. All he can do is his best to reassure Garrett and let him know that he’s safe, do it all night if need be. And that need is usually evident much more often than not. 

What really surprises him this time is that Garrett’s the first to speak, the words tumbling and falling frantically into the air around them, his voice slurred and uncoordinated, the shortness of breath progressively getting worse as he speaks. It’s like a switch has been flipped and he loses it.

“I don’t know what happened. He just swung at me and then… then I can’t remember.” His voice is shaking, barely audible over the rain.

Corvo is a physical man. He shows affection by hugging, touching, holding, and kissing. Garrett hates being touched, preferring to spend time alone to process events and feelings. They frustrate each other through how they prefer to interact but now they compromise. This time, when Corvo asks if he can hold Garrett, he doesn’t get an answer, so he chances it anyway, gently scooping Garrett into his arms. Garrett doesn’t resist, so Corvo feels empowered to hold on to him. Garrett can feel his own breathing getting more difficult like there’s a vice around his windpipe and his heart fluttering like a caged bird, but doesn’t notice how his knuckles are nearly going white from gripping onto the back of Corvo’s coat so tightly. His thoughts spin out of control, but he tries to concentrate on Corvo’s arms squeezing around his shoulders and the smell of rain and Him. Corvo has always smelled faintly of peaches and sea-salt - Garrett isn’t sure whether this is a result of growing up in mediterranean Serkonos or simply because he uses that peach-scented soap he insists on bringing back every time he visits his home country, but Garrett clings to that too, like it’s the only thing anchoring him onto the earth. Garrett only smells like soot and engine oil and earth.

Corvo pulls Garrett tighter and buries his face in the black tuft of hair. His body is shaking under Corvo’s grip now, sobs racking his entire body as the reality of what just happened hits him in the chest. The shouts of guards crescendo outside the window as more of them pour in to investigate what has happened but Corvo feels confident in their hiding spot, trusting that none of them will think to break into a room that appears only to be occupied by citizens. 

“Breathe.” Corvo commands as he realises Garrett’s still struggling to take a complete breath and he complies after a fashion, beginning to inhale and exhale to the rhythm of Corvo stroking the back of his head with his thumb. Garrett has not known Corvo for a long time; only a couple of years at the most, but he has drawn closer to him than nearly anyone else in the world, with the exception of Basso, but Garrett would never, ever admit that. It has taken a long time for Corvo to read Garrett, and even longer for Garrett to read Corvo, but they manage with a lot of patience.

It feels like hours before Garrett’s whimpering dies down to nothing but a slow, hitching in-out rhythm, ignoring the rawness at the back of his throat and the tightness on his cheeks where tears have re-wetted and washed away with dirt from earlier. He wipes away the crap from under his nose and allows his muscles to relax, sitting back against the wall, head tilted to the ceiling like those old, expensive paintings featuring religious figures, royalty, or men who have money to throw away on portraits. Corvo notices how he is framed in the early morning light, hair now dry but sticking up wildly in every direction, the kohl still streaked on his cheeks, the blue eye glowing and pulsing dimly, synchronised with his heartbeat in the darkness. Corvo pauses to appreciate the sight before helping Garrett up and leading him slowly over to the bed, where he helps Garrett out of his wet leathers, armour and harness, draping them lovingly over the windowsill in the vain hope that they might dry before the dawn breaks, before offering his own shirt; a warm, dry thing to sleep in.

Garrett looks tiny in the oversized shirt; skinny and pale, almost bordering on translucent. The scars that he’s acquired from years of work stand out from his skin, but it’s only possible to see them if Corvo looks closely. But that makes Garrett uncomfortable, so he resists. For now.

Garrett’s breath still hitches occasionally in his throat, but he feels calm enough to lie down and try to sleep now. He settles on his side while Corvo sits on the chair next to him, watching over him, hoping that Garrett feels safe and reassured in the knowledge that he is here under Corvo’s protection. Garrett’s breathing eventually slows to a soft snore and his muscles relax underneath the oversized shirt. Corvo has been stroking the side of his arm for some time before he finally rolls over onto his back. The sound of the rain dies out over the course of the night while below them, several hundred guards continue their search for the man who killed the Watchman in Baron's Way South. Only their slowly diminishing shouting and the pitter-patter of rain on the window breaks the silence.

Garrett wakes up briefly some hours later to find that Corvo has crawled into bed with him, the exhaustion of the night clearly having taken its toll on his weary mind. Garrett doesn’t say anything, too tired, too broken to care. The larger man’s body warmth seeps into his aching muscles as he shuffles wearily back onto his side and falls asleep again.

The next morning is bright and sunny and warm. The Watch have disappeared, having assumed that the death of their brother is the unfortunate result of a fight with a drunken lout. The body has been taken away for burial. And Garrett’s leathers have dried on the windowsill. 

Still, the pair remain undisturbed.


End file.
